Eight members of the marketing department sat around a long, cherry wood conference table on the thirty-eighth floor. A wall of windows stood behind me, and the sun streaming in warmed my back. Eight pairs of eyes stared at me with varying degrees of hilarity.

I blushed when one of the marketing managers sent me a lecherous grin and laid a hand mockingly over his heart.

"I mean, I can't test the underwear I just delivered to this floor. I'm a mail girl, not a professional."

"That's obvious." This snarky comment was courtesy of a Pamela Anderson wannabe type, but with bigger hair. I was surprised she managed to contain her boobs in the blue tweed suit she wore. "Just look at your clothes."

"You try schlepping heavy bags or pushing big mail carts around a dusty, dirty mailroom. Heels and fashionable clothing wouldn't last two days." I smoothed a hand self-consciously over my nondescript black slacks and spared a glance at my scuffed, snub-nosed loafers with rubber soles. A plain white button-down shirt, already streaked with some sort of schmaltz, completed my ensemble.

"That's because I've got more self-respect than to end up in an entry-level job. I'll bet you've worked in the same position for years. Ever heard of college?"

I glared at Pamela. "Ever heard of natural hair color?"

Titters from the ladies and guffaws from the men echoed around the table. My shot of smugness lasted all of three seconds, because then the manager spoke again.

"That's exactly why we need you for this project. You're the everyday woman, Miss--I'm sorry. I didn't quite catch your name." A vivid green gaze held mine. "In fact, I don't think we've ever been introduced. You don't mind that we pulled you into this brainstorming session, do you? It's just that I heard your comment about whose job it was to test the product and thought you'd be interested." Full lips parted with his easy grin and revealed perfect teeth that practically screamed they'd seen years of braces.

"My name's Kate. Kate Little."

He nodded, and my stomach lurched. I mentally berated myself for the pleasure that gripped me because he approved of my name.

A snort from Pamela. "That's funny. You're hardly a little anything."

My cheeks heated--this time from anger. "That's it. I'm not going to hang around and take abuse from you underfed, over-tanned, rude people." I shot out of the cushy leather chair and angled my way around the conference table, aware that everyone watched my departure.

Yeah, so I'm a thirty-year-old, plus-sized woman. I wear a size 16. It's not a crime, and it's not fat. It's average. And, by the way, I'm just Kate. Not Katherine with a "K" or even with a "C," and if you attempt to call me Katie, I'll ignore you. If the nickname persists and I become annoyed, I'll throw a pencil at you.

I paused at the head of the table to glare at the guy in charge. What's-his-name in the tailored suit. "Get someone else to be your guinea pig."